The twisted trees entwine as they stretch toward the sky, like the hands of the dying, grasping at the firmament, with screeching howls echoing beneath the dark red sky.
And amid these trees and cries, simple stone steles stand in the midst of the twisted wilderness.
Their material is not exceptional, and their luster is not strong — not ideal for making steles at all.
But they should be the strongest and most shape-retaining material available nearby.
They are deeply inserted into the ground, to prevent easy toppling or movement by exotic beasts roaming the wilderness.
They stand there, guarding the small mounds of graves behind them.
In the howling and twisting wind, these steles already show slight signs of weathering, yet the names engraved upon them remain clearly visible.
Thud—thud—thud——
From behind the elderly comes the dull sound of footsteps, with a trace of snow and ice spreading from behind and stopping beside him.
